tofi's trail

Milo's body is heavy, his skin numb. He doesn't know how long it's been since he washed up on that accursed beach, and he lost count on how many times he's seen her barely a dozen times after that first.

She likes to watch, sits in his favourite chair in her favourite room.

Milo hates both the chair and the room.

It was Milo's bedroom, once. She made a show of it, the first day he woke up in it. He watched her - previously his - subordinates dismantle everything, without a care for if they broke anything precious to him. Not that it truly matters, now.

Alice had been the most precious, though he'd tried to carry that secret-- into her grave.

He'd thought.

But Alice sits in Milo's favourite chair, in Milo's old bedroom, and gives directions and watch as Milo is slowly, bit by bit, agonisingly mutilated.

He wishes the localised anaesthesia numbed his mind as it did the skin that was carved into, he wishes he could stop from crying from the pain the bindings cause.

Alice smiles at his muffled screams, she laughs as the plastic bag is pulled over his head, she strokes herself as he twists ineffectively in his shackles, and she cums as his body thinks it's dying yet again and he pisses himself.

It would be karma, maybe. But Milo was never as bad to anyone as Alice is to him. He was ruthless and cruel, but not this way. She tells him that he made her this way, and he believes it. Because he can see it in her eyes. The deep-rooted darkness, pooling like his blood on the floor.

He's sweaty, his chest heaving, as she caresses his cheek.

In itself, it's a gentle motion.

But Milo's face is carved into, gashes irritated and open, and her touch is fire.

He did this. He knows it. He created a monster, and lost all control to it.

Pools of Blood